Dark Mirror
by AResidentGhost
Summary: POTO XMen. The demon looking Erik, shunned by the world around him, is finally offered refuge. What will happen, and will he finally be accepted? Leroux based.
1. I: Rescue

There was nothing he could do to save himself. He huddled up and raised his arms to protect himself.

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpers. His voice is beautiful, his body, though, is horribly skeletal. He closes his golden eyes and prepares for the worst as the mob approaches ever closer.

Before the crowd reaches him however, they freeze in mid-movement. However, the young man seems unaffected. His sobs are nerve-wracking.

A creature, blue-furred and tailed, with all the appearance of a demon come to life, walks up to the huddling figure. The creature reaches out one of his hands and takes hold of his arm.

"It's okay. Take my hand. We'll get you away from here."

"Who are you?"

"Kurt Wagner, better known as Nightcrawler. Another one like you is here—his name is Arik. What is yours?"

"Monsieur, I have no name. But you may call me Erik," the masked person replies as he opens his eyes and takes Kurt's hand.


	2. II: Where Am I?

I wake up, and my heart is full of dread. Where am I? Am I in Hell? Am I in jail or a cage once again for being a "freak"? Have I accidentally killed someone again with my touch when I was unconscious?

My eyes open… I am in a bed. A soft, comfortable bed that I surely do not belong in! I try to get out of bed and just as I am about to stand up, I am hit by a wave of pain and nausea. When the hell was the last time I had something to eat? Not for a long time, probably… I collapse back down onto the bed, being careful of my wings. Has whoever rescued me seen them? Do they think I am a demon come from Hell? But I wouldn't think so… I remember one of them, who looked like a demon himself! Surely, they would not judge me because of appearance then, would they? I sigh.

I nay not have a nose, but I can detect a very strong odor suddenly—brimstone. So I _am_ in Hell! But maybe not… The odor itself is disappearing. So where am I?

The creature that looks like a demon walks up to my bed. What did he say his name was? _Murt? Kirk? Kurt?_ Yes, that's it! Kurt Wagner! He speaks with a German accent.

"Hello, again."


	3. III: People's Ignorance

"Do you know where you are, Erik?" Kurt asks.

I shake my heard, but even that motion makes me tired, dizzy, and disorientated.

"I don't know what they did to you, but you don't look good."

I laugh forcedly. "Since when have I ever looked good? _At least you have a nose!_" I spit. I realize someone's taken my mask off. "_Where is it? Where is my mask?"_

"Do you really _need_ that mask?" He asks.

My eyes narrow dangerously. "I can kill you with one touch, I hope you know. But I could heal what my touch could do to you just by one touch, also. Which would you prefer _daemon? Know that you are walking a very fine line right now, and Erik could go either way…"_

I sigh, releasing my deadly anger before it builds to dangerous levels. "Why didn't you just let me die? It would have been so much easier on this bigoted world…"

"Because no one deserrves to die like that—ever. Who knows what gifts you have to give to the world yet?"

"You're right, monsieur," I admit. It is rare for me to admit wrongdoing—be it in thought, word, or action.

"I have no last name. My name itself is but an accident. If I could heal myself, heal my disfigured face, I would. My face—rejected and hated the world over just because of my appearance. When I was little, I was brought to many of the finest surgeons in the world. Yet, every time I visited a new doctor, my case would be rejected, denied, and declared impossible to repair. Now you know why I wear this mask. Because of people's ignorance."


	4. IV: Hunger

"When was the last time you ate? You are nothing but skin and bones!" The normal-looking person/nurse/doctor comments.

She is beautiful to my eyes. But I know I would never have a chance with a woman of her beauty. She has reddish brown hair, cut short and spiked, and dark blue, almost black eyes (the irises, that is).

"I do not remember… But I know Erik has always been as thin as a corpse…" I say. "May I ask what is your name?"

"Oh certainly, mister. Mary-Anne Doming. I'm from the South, originally, but moved up to New England when I was eight years old.

"You look hungry. I'll get you some soup."

"Why soup?"

"Because it is better to start with foods that are easier to digest, like if you were sick with the flu. Your stomach probably cannot handle anything heavier," she replies.

"Mademoiselle, I assure you, I do not need soup—perhaps some bread and cheese… I only eat when I am hungry, and that isn't very often," I warn. I _am_ hungry, but I know that soup will not fill me up.


	5. V: A Visit With Xavier

A man comes into the room. He is in a wheelchair of a design unlike any I have ever seen. I feel someone trying to invade my mind. I try to fight them.

He speaks. "Be calm, monsieur," he addresses me in my "native" language. I respond in my first language, one of many that I know.

"Monsieur, I am calm. I would appreciate it if you kept out of my head! _And don't touch my hands, neck or lower arms without gloves if you wish to live…"_

"Ah… a self-defense mechanism," he muses. "Tel me: Is there a way of reversing this effect?"

"Yes. If I choose to 'drown out' the touch with a healing touch… It can heal anything—injuries, sickness, and even reverse my touch when I accidentally cause it."

"What do you mean, 'accidentally'?" He asks.

"I can control it most of the time," I respond. "The exception is during sleep, stress, or unconsciousness. That is why I wear so much to bed, monsieur. By the way, what is your name—if I'm not being too rude, of course."

"Xavier. Professor Charles Xavier. You can call me Professor or Charles, if you like. Would you like a tour of the facility, Erik?"

"How do you know my name? And where am I—a _prison or insane asylum? Lord knows I should be placed there just for being born!"_ Before my rage can explode any further, I feel a calming influence on my mind.

"You are in my school for the gifted. There are others like you, feared for their differences from humanity. Trust me that you will not be jeered at because of what you look like in my school," the disabled man speaks. "My difference is not totally visible. I am a telepath of surprising strength. That's how I know your name already."

I am silent for a while. Then I open my mouth again. "I accept your offer of a tour of this place. However, I will need help getting up, as I am quite sore for some reason… Maybe I should wait until I feel better…"

"I understand," he assents. "One would no doubt be sore after not moving for over a week when one is so obviously used to moving around and a high level of activity."

'I must admit there are a few who, for some reason or another, are completely _immune_ to my _deadly_ touch. I can usually tell who they are; it is like a sixth sense. There is at least one here at this school. His name is Kurt Wagner."


	6. VI: Memories of Abuse

It is frightening to be around so many people, yet feel very accepted, no matter the appearance. No one gives a second thought to my appearance—especially my dragon (or demon) like wings! It is most certainly something I have never experienced.

Here, I can walk freely without a cloak to hide my wings. And though I feel free enough to do that, I don't believe I will ever feel secure enough—anywhere—to walk around without my mask.

I can blame it all on my parents, and their abuse of me whenever they felt like it, but worse and _always_ whenever I took my mask off in their or anyone else's presence.

Ah, yes, my parents should probably be thrown in jail for life, no doubt. But they probably will get away with it, I suppose. Few people knew I was really alive, although they knew I was a freak—even before any mutations started to appear. Very few people knew what I looked like when I was young, as I was forced to wear a mask since birth.

Many, many times I was forgotten and left locked in the attic. Everything tat I was to use was in that attic. Instead of being just one room, it was more like another floor of the house, only the floor was mostly unfinished wood board, most worn smooth through time by the passage of my feet, except the bathroom and a few other rooms, and the walls' paint was peeling in places.

My room and the attic when the maid finished her twice weekly cleaning of the attic (except my room, in which I had to stay during the whole time) were the only places I could relieve myself from the pressure of the mask that I was swiftly outgrowing.

The attic also contained a bathroom, complete with shower, tub, sink, and toilet. Sometimes, if my parent's maid noticed I was running low on soap or shampoo, she would leave some more in the bathroom.

I never really knew if my parents had any other children, as I was rarely allowed outside of the attic. What they did not know, however, was about the secret passages within the walls, accessible easily from the attic. There are other entrances, but they were well concealed, and I preferred for them (the other people living in the house) to not know so I would not get in trouble for roaming the house and raiding the kitchen at night when I was hungry.

It was soon rumored about a ghost or a thief, I was the one they talked about, but I don't think they really ever caught on. One time, though, I almost got caught. And I did not go unpunished for that. My father and some men came up to the attic the next day. After knocking me down to the floor with his fist, he had the men hold me down so I could not escape or move to protect myself. He then proceeded to beat me senseless. After a while, I fell unconscious. I must admit I welcomed its sweet release from the pain.

When I woke up again, probably about two to three days later, I hurt so bad, was bruised so much that I resembled an eggplant (a very skinny eggplant), and I could not move. I resolved myself then and there that when my injuries felt better, I would run away from home, and away from the abuse.

And I did. I've never stayed in one place for more than a couple of years, two at the tops, and only once did I stay for three years, which was when I was in Turkey.


	7. VII: Just Erik, Monsieur

"I am not looking for pity, Monsieur Xavier," I state. "I find it to be very condescending. But the reason I told you this is for you to know why I am so nervous around lots of people, and especially around strangers. I just don't want you to think I am antisocial, like many people often assume."

"Ah, I see," he says. "You needn't feel that the people here are strangers. Many of them have gone through hell until they come here because they are 'different'. So many of the people who are here would not act the same as many of the people you have met in your life previously. So try to not feel so out of place. You are as welcome here as anyone else."

"Thank you for rescuing me. But I don't know how long it will take for me to acclimate to living with people again after being alone for so long," I admit.

We went outside to the grounds of the school. He said to wait for a minute. A tall, lithe man with bright blue hair. _I wonder if that is his real hair or if it is dyed that color…_ I'm afraid I was staring at him, for he blushed bright red while giving me a questioning look.

Though he wouldn't appear so, I can feel that he has a very dominant personality, and for some reason, is another one that is immune. I think however, that instead of being openly dominant and aggressive/overpowering, he has a more subdued, less harsh dominance that perhaps he isn't even aware of. The kind that would bow to most pressure, perhaps, but would, if pressed too hard or irritated enough, would snap back and become very overwhelming/dominant, and easily defend himself without effort or regret.

"I'm sorry for staring," I attempt to apologize, although it comes out strained and forced. I am not very good at apologizing, as I was never really given the chance to practice this phenomenon.

Professor Xavier started to introduce him to me. "Xavier, this is Erik. Erik, this is Xavier."

"My name is Xavier Golden. Most just call me 'Zag' because my first name is hard to pronounce for most people. Nice to meet you, Erik…?" He speaks with a smooth, rich voice that sounds faintly British. He looks mostly normal; I wonder what his difference is…

"Just Erik, monsieur. I never knew my surname, and my name itself is an accident. Nice to meet you, too. If I am not being too bold, may I ask what is your difference?"

"You will see. I'll show you when we are alone, as I don't want to scare people."

Professor Xavier speaks, "Mr. Golden, would you please take Erik on a tour of the grounds here?"

"Most certainly." Zag retorts.


	8. VIII: A Walk In the Gardens

I've been here for about a week now, and I seem to have attracted some kind of following among the girls. Maybe it is the mask and the mystery it entails? Some of the worse ones would swoon out of pure joy if I but speak one word to them. I know my voice in itself has the power to make people swoon with delight, but usually they either get used to that aspect of it.

Right now, however, Xavier Golden (or Zag as people call him) and I are taking a walk through the gardens.

"I'd never thought I would be accepted anywhere because of my terrible power, let alone because of my face," I admit to him. He was one of the few people who would approach me those first few days I was awake. He quickly became my friend. He's taught me more about people than I have learned throughout my life.

"Really? I am surprised at you," he replies.

"Why?"

"Because underneath your tough exterior lies an intelligent, sensitive, passionate, and caring soul that, despite having been mistreated for so long and by so many people, refuses to become tarnished. You truly have a heart of gold."

"I guess I never thought of it that way," I relent.

In the trees of the gardens there are possibly hundreds of birds of the family _corvidae_. The crows take to the air and circle as we approach the gardens. What they are doing there, in the trees, I do not know. I turn to Zag and say, "Do you know what kind of birds those are, monsieur?"

"Crows, ravens."

I continue, saying, "Carrion birds. And they follow me everywhere in hopes of a free meal by my hand." I sigh. It's the truth, but it is still hard to accept and bear the brunt of my existence. "No matter where I go, they will always be there. Circling, perching, preening. I cannot escape them. It seems that they seem to know wherever I happen to be at any given moment. I wonder if I could tame one or a pair again. I did tame one once before, when I was younger, and roamed with the gypsies. But when they found out about it, they took him away, and I have no idea what happened to him."

"Perhaps you can," he says. "I may even know someone who can help you. Her name is Angie. She can communicate with birds. I must even admit that she even kind of looks like a bird. I shall have to introduce her to you."

"That you shall. I would be glad to meet her," I state.


	9. IX: First Lessons

Today I attended my first lessons. As I have never been formally taught to read and write, thus resulting in my garish, stilted, and childish handwriting; that subject, along with the English language is one of my first classes. I can write in many different languages, although it may not always be "pretty", it is at least, effective. The only language I seem to have real trouble with writing and speaking is English for some reason, especially since the English language does not use an all-too-different alphabet…

The teacher, or rather, translator/tutor, who is helping me in that area is quite lovely. She has long blonde hair that reaches down to the middle of her back, and pale green eyes. Her name is Susannah Milo, and she is exceptionally patient, understanding, and intelligent. Unfortunately, she is not one of the lucky few who are immune, so I must always wear gloves around her, as well as be in absolute control of my senses… I think she is unconsciously afraid of me, though.

However, she won't have to work with me for very long, as I am a very fast learner. This is how I am able to speak so many languages, even though I never stayed anywhere very long.

I wonder when Zag will show me his power and introduce me to that lady, Angie. He would have shown me his power but we were interrupted in the tour outside by a sudden shower that quickly escalated into a horrific storm. I told him to hang on while I carried him as I flew all the way back to the mansion. We made it back in time before it really started to storm bad. Now my wings, shoulders, and back are extremely sore—most likely from the sudden stress after such a long time of lack of use…


	10. X: Sore

Some are still disgusted by my face, but those are few and far between. The major reason for this is that very few have seen all of my face here. Most have only seen my eyes and perhaps a small bit of my mouth—where it looks normal, at least. But Zag, bless his soul, has seen me without my mask, yet thinks nothing of it. He is one of the most tolerant people I've ever met. Maybe that is why we have become friends in so very little time.

Anyways, I declined the invitation to eat with everyone else for three reasons. One, I am extremely sore and I just want to lie down in my room as soon as possible and sleep it off. Two, I am exhausted—there is no way around the fact that I can barely keep my head up. Three, I am still not used to being around people. It bothers me, and makes me very uncomfortable, particularly when I eat.

But the damn nurse that took care of me earlier was worried and wouldn't leave me alone to go to sleep. Does she think I'm anorexic? Or skeleton-thin by choice? I'm not. I don't eat when I am not hungry, and it is not often that I am hungry. And when I do eat regularly, I never seem to put on weight like normal people. I do not know why, I believe it's just another weird quirk of my body.

So she brought me some food. It does smell very good, delicious, even, but again, I am not hungry even though I know I need to eat in order to feel better and become strong once again. I just pick at the food in front of me, eating maybe two or three bites before becoming disinterested once again.

I can feel exhaustion and its companion, sleep, overtaking me ever so slowly. My body and mind find it becoming harder and harder to resist, and therefore I succumb to its welcoming embrace.


	11. XI: Have Pity

I just want to be alone. Everybody keeps asking about my past. I would say "fuck you" to most of them if it wouldn't get me in trouble with the rules—which I most certainly do not need. As if it wasn't bad enough that my face looks like it does, but with these wings and my touch, it is horrible! And at times it is like being back in that cage on exhibit along with the other freaks during my travels with the Roma, when people stared and gawked like I was some kind of monster to be locked away and have no rights as a human would. Of course, considering what I looked like at the time, I would not blame them.

I am afraid I have been rather testy lately. I hope no one has been offended by my attitude. I most certainly hope not. By God, if I have screwed up this chance at a "normal" life once again, I do not know what I would do! Where would I go? How would I survive?


	12. XII: Un Petite Amor

One touch. That's all it takes. Thankfully that one fateful, deadly touch has not happened. Although I cannot wish my curse upon others, I must wonder when the eventual actually happens. I just hope it won't happen for a very long time.

A knock sounds on my door. I wonder who it is…

"Come in," I command. "I am anything but naked."

The door opens and an exceptionally pale hand, with just three fingers and a thumb, appears.

"I hope I am not interrupting anything…" A very feminine voice, soft and silky, speaks quietly.

"_Non, mademoiselle, _you are not interrupting anything. All I was doing was some English and literature homework."

She steps inside, and I can't help noticing how beautiful she is. Cherry-blossom hair, could it be natural or dyed that color? Her eyes are brilliant, the color of blue topaz. Her body fairly crackles with untamed energy. She is of short stature, but I would say that about just about anyone, as many people would be compared to me. I'd say she is around five feet, four inches, maybe more.

"I-I … I made you some fudge… Everyone likes fudge… You do, don't you?" She stutters and averts her eyes. Is she afraid of me? Then why did she come in the first place, as the Americans say? Or can it be that someone actually loves me?

"I… I have never really had _fudge_, as you call it. A few sweets that I either managed to steal or talk shop owners into letting me buy merchandise from then. Especially after my "touch" showed up because at that time I started wearing gloves of all kinds—cotton, satin, silk, and leather—usually leather. That, along with a long cloak to hide these…" I motion towards my leathery wings, which are folded against my back. "…And a black hat with a wide brim to cast my mask, ears, and eyes in shadow."

I can feel my heart start to race and an unknown feeling stir within my chest. The feeling is neither all that unpleasant nor odd, but rather pleasant and warm. I may start to enjoy this new feeling. Then again, it may be what these Americans call "puppy love".

"What is your mutation, if I am not being too bold?" I inquire.

"Other than the obvious?" She laughs. I let out a nervous chuckle. A solitary life spent running, hiding, and as a freak would never prepare one's self for their first taste of love! "Skin tough as steel, hard as diamond, and sharp as a butcher knife fresh from the store. And a wit as sharp as a double-edged sword."

"Don't worry 'bout me dieing from your touch. Probably caused by some poison you unwittingly secrete. Not much penetrates my skin, might make me sick, but hardly death."

"How… How did you know?" I stammer.

"It's not common, but is entirely possible. I may be shy, but I am hardly stupid. Now, try a piece."

I take a piece of the chocolate confection. "Please turn around. Erik is not a pretty sight, and he would rather not disturb you with Erik's _good looks_," I plead. She turns her head. I reach up and ,move my mask to place the fudge into my mouth. This is very good! If it were possible for one to become addicted to food, one would surely become addicted to this sugary confection! I finish the piece, placing the last mouthful into my oral cavity, and replacing my mask into its original position.

"You may turn around now. Those are very good. Did you make them yourself?"

A grin lights up her pale, elfin face. "Yes." She then runs up and hugs me, causing me to stagger back a bit. Hesitantly, I return the hug. The warmth inside grows into a fire, shining rarely seen light within my heart.


	13. XIII: Moonlight Masquerade

"Would you… Would you like to take a walk outside…tonight?" I ask hesitantly. I feel like I could tell my whole life story to her, and she would listen and understand. Why do I feel this way? I certainly have not known her but from tonights chance meeting…

"Beneath the moonlight?" She whispers in my ear.

"Yes. Let me grab my cloak. You should go grab a jacket. I do not want you to become sick or catch a cold. Meet me out back." She hurries off towards the _madams et mademoiselles_ dormitories. I grab one of my black velvet cloaks, one with a hood to cover my mask.

It is a beautiful night tonight. Clear sky, bright, full moon, not a single cloud marring the velvet sky. I arrived not that long ago, but she has not appeared yet. I am starting to wonder if she is ever going to show up. It may have just been a trick, just like many times before. I am just about to give up when I hear a light, excited giggle. I turn to look over my shoulder—she finally showed up! I decide to sneak up on her.

I whisper in her ear using ventriloquism, "May I take mademoiselle's hand?"

She jumps and turns around frantically before she spots me. She places a delicate hand over her breast and looks quite excited.

"Oh! It's just you, Erik," she relents.

"Who else would I be?" I answer. "Once again, may I take mademoiselle's hand?"

"Most certainly, Erik."

"By the way, I've never really learned your name. Would you mind sharing it with me?"

"Sara. Sara Lindon."

She takes my hand, albeit the fact that I am wearing my gloves once again, as usual, although a different pair.

We have walked to a clearing. I turn to the younger girl, who is about sixteen or seventeen years old (while I am nineteen), my eyes glowing brightly in the dark, seemingly lit from within by fire.

"Want to see something awe-inspiring?"

She nods her head. I have "magically" lit the lanterns surrounding the clearing, and now they light the area with a diffuse, but bright enough to see by, glow.

I remove my cloak, revealing my leather "trench coat" and eager wings. I give in to the urge to stretch them. It feels so good to move them in this way again, _without_ having to _worry_ about been _seen_ or _caught_, after so long.

With a couple of powerful strokes and a jump, I find myself in the air once again. The feeling of flight is a euphoria that cannot be recreated, secreted, or replaced by any known drug on Earth, at least that I know of.

Higher and higher I fly, my eyes appearing as twin stars in the sky. The freedom of the sky, where no one can disgrace you, become sick at my sight, or hate me.


	14. XIV: Nervousness Turns To Relief

"I know it sounds stupid, but it is true—I was named after a literary character. Mainly because of my appearance," I begin my presentation. "However, despite this, I knew nothing of the reason for my particular name, as I born and "raised" mostly in northern France. And Erik (with a k) is not a common name for native French peoples."

"I had no idea about my name until I was around the age of twelve. It was at that time that I was traveling with the Romany. At this time, it was by force, but I had earned their trust that I would not leave them. Therefore, when we came to a town, I was allowed to go into such town with the other performers. Sometimes I would buy myself new clothes, some supplies for my "show" (I am an accomplished magician, among other things), or perhaps a few treats. As the previous stop was quite successful, I had more money than usual. As a result, I had enough money to not only buy some clothes I needed (I was still growing), but also a couple of books, a new mask, and a new black hat with wide brims to shadow my face. One of the books I chose was a copy of Monsieur Leroux's '_Le Fantome de L'Opera'_, or in English, '_The Phantom of the Opera_'. It was after reading that novel did come to make that connection."

"After that," I continue after taking a deep breath. "When the carnival came to Paris, which was when I was sixteen, I had 'escaped' from the Romany for once and for all. After traveling around _Eurasia_ for the past _four_ years, I traveled on my own from town to town, visiting carnivals, going where I wanted to."

"At Paris, once again, I left the carnival I was traveling with at the time, packed all my belongings, and traveled to the storied Paris Opera House, now housing _ballets_. There, I made my home in much the same manner as my namesake, albeit _supposedly_ fictional."

I bow and return to my "seat", which is more of a "bean bag", on account of my almost fragile wings. The students politely clap. Did I do badly? Was my English not perfect? I give questioning look towards the teacher, although only my eyes can be seen.

A voice in my head speaks, "_You did well, Erik."_


	15. XV: A Question of Faith

I was out in the garden once again, and again, it was night. The stars were shining brightly and the moon shone with a cold silver glow. It is so peaceful out here at night. The smell of the moonflowers and the sweet songs of the nightingales, make this place as close to heaven as I will probably ever get.

I am ready to take off and go for a late-night flight when I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. Despite my incredible night vision, the figure is hard to make out in the shadows.

"Who are you? Are you friend or enemy? Show yourself!" I command to the shadow. The figure emerges from the shadows, revealing itself to be Kurt. "What are you doing out this late, _monsieur?_"

"I come out at night at times because the peace and tranquility allows me to commune better with God," the demon-mutant says. By this time he was faced away from me. I quickly hide my thin chest and wings, so as not to scare the older man. Kurt then turns around and looks at me as if trying to figure something out.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I was just wondering," he responds.

"About what?"

"Are you a man of good faith, Erik?"

Where did that come from? I wonder to myself. I then answer, "Not particularly. Not with this horrid face. Why would such a deity care about me? I have all those lives on my hands."

"Surely you believe in something..."

"I do not know that you would understand…" I return.

"You say you have had no peace in your life," he states. I do not remember ever saying that to anyone, much less him.

"When did I ever say that?"

"You do not need to say that, anyone can read it on your face and body." I growl at him. This is not what I wanted, particularly not a lecture on my life and how I should live it.

"And who are you to know?" I spit.

"Have you ever tried to go to _confession_? Or attend a Mass? For God does forgive if you are willing to change and be forgiven. Only He can give you peace."

"And what proof of this so-called 'God' do you have?" I spat. "He is no true, loving god, for otherwise he would not have created me, this abomination, this Devil!"

But Kurt kept ignoring me, and was once again eyeing me suspiciously. Did I ask to be born this way? To have this terrifying and deadly responsibility for the mere want of a human touch? No. I felt my anger welling once again within me. In an attempt to hide my frustration, I turn from the yellow-eyed, blue, tailed man beside me. If he saw my eyes, if anyone saw my eyes, they would say that my eyes appear to be burning with an unholy glow, a hellfire, if you will. I can't help that my eyes tend to react to light and my emotions. But I was still unsure of my surroundings, and did not want to be ostracized once again.


	16. XVI: The Death of Erik

The next day came all too quickly for my taste. The first thing I noticed was that there was little noise as I woke, which is highly unusual for a morning at this school.

"Hello?" I call out.

"Hurry! You won't want to miss it!" Someone answers from down the hall.

"Miss what?" I ask as I exit my room and head towards the stairs.

"A fight!"

"Between who?"

I have caught up with the person, whose name is Angel Marnez. He has bird-like features, including a pair of purple, feathered wings.

Angel responds, "Between Logan and Javier Maline. Something about who should be allowed on the team."

By the time we get there, though, the fight is over without a single punch. Many are disappointed.

Suddenly, a blinding pain strikes through my head, making me almost double over in pain. I gasp for air and try to regain my senses. A voice sounds through my head, "Erik! Report to the prep room! Suit up and be ready for flight in ten minutes. _Do not ignore this. Your skills will be needed on this mission._"

After figuring out how to get there and putting the "suit" on, we left in a highly technologically advanced plane for Europe. We were briefed and told what was needed to know, and by that time, we had arrived.

Many people were injured, and many I healed. But there were many that I could never help, for they were dead and I was no necromancer.

I place my hands upon a soldier's aching, pain-racked body. At first he tries to struggle away from me, but I talk to him like I would an animal—soft and gentle, never demeaning. "Don't struggle, I won't hurt you. Try to stay still and you will be healed like new." He relaxes under my soothing words of assurance.

I speak just one word: "Heal." Pale blue flames spread down my arms and out through my hands. He begins to tense and move away.

"Be calm, it won't hurt you, I promise."

The "fire" moves around his body, dancing over his wounds and enveloping his body in a warm, soothing glow. In minutes, it disappears. The soldier looks visibly relieved and grateful.

"Thank you, mister. I would have died if not for you." I cannot stop a tear as it forms in the corner of my eye and rolls down my face under the mask. "What is your name, mister?"

"Erik… I have no last name that I know of. And yours so that I may look back and remember the kindness you have offered?"

"Lieutenant James McNally, sir, at your service."

"Thank you." I shake his hand, giving him a little extra jolt of life to protect him until he returns home.

I race onwards through the air towards the main front, soaring on winds unnoticeable to most people. A shot rings out and a dull thud sounds. I don't even notice what happened right away, I am so focused on my goal. Then, I slowly start getting weaker. I look down and notice I am bleeding from my heart… I lose control very fast after that, when another couple rounds hit me. I am plummeting through the air, trying to stay conscious, but rapidly failing.

Erik is dead, someone shouts….


	17. XVII: Epilogue

The funeral was simple, yet elegant. Overnight he gained the respect and even love that he was forever looking for in life. He touched many lives that day, that battle. Of them all, Lieutenant James McNally was possibly touched the most, and with the strongest effect. He became one of the loudest supporters for a memorial or honor (posthumously) for the being known as Erik, last name and possible even real name unknown.

Many people at the school, even those who did not particularly know him during his relatively short stay, but even more so for those who did, mourned him intensely and for a long time. Even the president at the time gave in to the demands of the populace and veterans of the skirmish, mutant and human alike. He had a brand new award made and declared just for the occasion. For the selfless giving of his life after saving all those _hundreds_, mutant, human, friend, and foe, on his way to bring help to others, he was honored in a ceremony broadcast into many thousands, even millions of homes in this country, and throughout the world.

Eventually, life returned to normal at the Xavier Institute. Many still secretly mourned the loss of an incredibly powerful force that had the potential for infinite goodness and life, even though placed in a body that resembled that of a mangled corpse.

But in France, where his one and only girlfriend who had secretly been planning on getting married to Erik had fled after his death, there was the promise of new life. Sara Lindon, now known as Sara Edlemann, having managed to find out her beloved's family name and assumed it in his memory, was pregnant with his child.

She rubs her belly absently, feeling the small, delicate, yet strong, life inside. "I will never forget your father, little one. You shall carry on your father's knowledge and legacy."


End file.
